


leave you with the love we made

by sammyatstanford



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Samcest, Voyeurism, implausible scenarios
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-19
Updated: 2015-01-19
Packaged: 2018-03-08 05:21:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,832
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3196907
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sammyatstanford/pseuds/sammyatstanford
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“One thing you’ll learn about your big brother,” Sam says, tugging the strip of leather through the kid’s belt loops and tossing it aside with a clink before setting to work on the fastenings. “He really likes to watch.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	leave you with the love we made

“How do you know he’ll be here?”

Sam shrugs, pulls open the door to the bar. “I just know.”

Dean gets a hand on his shoulder. “Wait, do you _remember_ this?”

Sam shakes his head. “No, and I don’t think it’s something I would have forgotten voluntarily.”

They find him with a small group of friends over near the dartboards. Dean moves to go talk to him, but Sam puts a hand on his chest. “Just wait. He’ll get away from them.”

“Don’t wanna wait,” Dean whines a little, pressing himself up against his brother’s side, eyes on the kid across the bar. And he really does look like a kid, even if Dean knows he’s nineteen. “Anyway, how do you know, if you don’t remember?”

Sam laughs. “I didn’t always do so well with crowds, before Jess. Plus I had a killer fake ID—”

“You’re welcome,” Dean interjects.

“—and so I’d always be the one getting drinks. And yeah yeah, I made that one for myself, thanks.”

Sam’s right of course. They go to the bar, get a couple of beers while they’re waiting, and sure enough it’s only fifteen minutes or so before he’s peeling away from his friends, empty pitcher in hand. As soon as he puts the empty down, Sam is leaning on the bar next to him, definitely too close to be casual. Dean stays behind him, watching.

“Hey man,” the younger version of himself starts hotly, clearly intent on telling off the guy who’s all up in his personal space, but then he actually _looks_ , and his mouth stops moving, left hanging a little open in his surprise.

“Yes,” Sam says, “I am you. From the _future_.” He wiggles his fingers at his younger self, and Dean snorts a laugh behind him.

The sound seems to jog the younger Sam’s brain a bit, and then he’s scoffing. “Yeah, cute. Is that how you always pick up guys, because your line could use a little work.”

“Not a line, and you know it,” Sam replies, crossing his arms over his chest. “Come on, all the shit you’ve seen, and you don’t think this is possible?”

Dean can see the younger Sam’s hands clenching up by his sides. “I think it’s a lot _more_ possible that you’re something nasty wearing my face. Which begs the question. If you know who I am, then why are you here, when you know what I can do to you?” The kid’s gaze is flinty, jaw hard, and Dean just wants to pinch his cheeks or something.

Dean finally steps up next to his brother, slings an arm around his shoulders, looks into the kid’s eyes. “Not lying, little brother.” The kid’s eyes widen slightly, a total tell Dad would have had his ass for back in the day, but Dean gets it. Sam’s changed quite a bit as he’s gotten older—longer hair, bigger body, all that scruff—but Dean looks a lot like he did at twenty-three, just with the smooth lines roughened, the soft skin a bit more weathered.

The younger Sam looks back and forth between the two of them for a long moment, and then he lifts his chin, eyes back on the older version of himself. “So prove it.”

Dean’s Sam ducks out from under his arm, leans right up into the kid’s space, lips on his ear, and Dean can’t hear what he’s saying but he can see the way the kid’s Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows tightly. He’s biting his lip as Sam pulls back.

“So,” Sam says, real casual, rubbing his hands together. “You wanna get out of here?”

The kid’s teeth dig further in, a flush of white appearing on the pretty pink of his bottom lip, and then he nods.

“Good answer,” Dean says, grinning, and then he’s wrapping an arm around this Sam’s lean little waist and following the older Sam towards the door.

***

“Isn’t this Professor Vortega’s house?” the younger Sam asks, watching Sam pick the lock to the back porch door while Dean ostensibly keeps a lookout but actually checks the kid out because damn, he’d almost forgotten how good Sam used to look, especially during all these years he’d missed out on while Sam was at school.

“Yep,” Sam replies, not looking up from his task.

“Dude, that guy’s a dick!”

The lock clicks, and Sam twists the handle and shoves the door open as he gets on his feet. He smirks over his shoulder. “I know. But he’s away on sabbatical. So consider this a little revenge.”

***

“How did you guys get here?” the younger Sam asks as they climb the stairs.

“Angels,” Dean replies, eyes on his kid brother’s jeans as he follows.  He’s so focused on the pert little ass hiding under them that he almost smacks into the kid’s back when he stops suddenly.

“Angels are real?” he asks, that same note of pleased surprise that Dean’s Sam had when he first heard the truth, too.

“They’re not what you think,” Sam says from where he’s watching them, a few steps above at the top of the stairs. He reaches out a hand, and his younger self takes it, lets himself be guided down the hall, into the master suite with its king size bed and armchair in the nook of the bay window. Dean takes off his coat, throws it down on the dresser before he eases himself into the chair and starts unlacing his boots.

The younger Sam watches him unabashedly, tongue coming out to wet his lower lip. Dean stares back.

“I won’t remember this, will I?” the kid asks quietly, turning to look at his older self over his shoulder. Sam’s got his shoes off too, bare toes pressing into the carpet.

“No,” he says, and to Dean, he sounds sorry. “Not until you’re my age, anyway. Then some _asshole_ ,” he cocks his head in Dean’s direction, “will bring it up, like a joke, and you’ll know it happened, even if you can’t recall the details. Know that you’re going to make it happen again.” He pauses, waits for the younger Sam to nod. “Now. Come here.”

And the kid hesitates for a minute, but he does it, steps into the arms that Sam opens, let’s Sam spin him around so they’re both facing Dean. Sam’s hands come up, long, thick fingers working down the buttons of the kid’s shirt.

The younger Sam watches those toughened hands work down his chest; Dean can see the rise and fall of his shoulders speeding up with his breathing, but he makes a little noise of confusion, looks to the left to catch his older self’s eye. “I thought you said—”

But Sam just _hmm_ s to quiet him, whispers, “Later,” into his skin, one hand up to push the hair off the back of the kid’s neck as he moves his mouth down the column of the kid’s throat, nips at the spot where neck joins shoulder, where Dean knows from experience Sam is extra-sensitive. The kid shudders a little in Sam’s arms, knees going soft, eyes closing, and then Sam’s drawing him around, sliding the shirt off his shoulders so he’s left in just a wife beater and jeans, turning them so they’re in profile to Dean, so he can see the shadow of the kid’s eyelashes, the spread of Sam’s hand, huge on the soft skin of the kid’s cheek.

“I’m gonna kiss you now, okay?” Sam murmurs, and the kid nods, eyes still closed, a breathless sort of whimper escaping just before Sam’s lips touch his, gentle at first, a light, teasing brush that makes goosebumps stand up on Dean’s skin, back and forth and back and forth until Dean sees the slip of his tongue passing over the kid’s bottom lip. They’re almost the same height, but the kid’s got his head tilted back like he’s at worship so that Sam has to loom over him, press fully up into his space and guide the kid’s mouth to his as the kisses get more heated, flash of tongue and soft little wet sounds that have Dean adjusting himself in his pants. He can feel the pulse of blood to his dick, the way it’s jumping in time with his heartbeat as he watches the scene before him.

Sam’s hands slip under the kid’s shirt, brushing up and down the lines of his abdomen a few times before he pushes the fabric up and over the kid’s shoulders, lets it fall to the floor. Sam huffs a little laugh. “Sometimes, I forget I used to look like this,” he says, looks over and catches Dean’s eye across the room.

“What?” Dean retorts. “I certainly don’t.” And it’s only half a joke because Dean does remember, remembers all the different ways Sam has grown, since Sam was just a toddler. Remembers Sam boy-chubby, teen-skinny, lanky and too adult in the way he held his shoulders. The younger Sam is looking between the two of them with a disbelieving little half-smile on his face, because this Sam hasn’t seen Dean in at least a year, is probably about to have the fight with his Dean that will separate them permanently until Dad goes missing, and it’s like he’s not sure whether their camaraderie is too good to be true. But then he shakes himself a little, smirks, says, “Hey, I’m standing right here,” and Dean grins at that.

“You certainly are,” Dean replies, predatory note clear in his voice, but instead of making the kid nervous, it seems to relax him.

Dean nods at his Sam, and Sam gets his hands on the kid’s belt, slips his thumb under the leather, feeds it backwards through the buckle. The kid makes no move to stop him, but he does rest his hands on Sam’s shoulders, leans up to his ear, but still says loud enough for Dean to hear, “Isn’t he gonna…?”

“One thing you’ll learn about your big brother,” Sam says, tugging the strip of leather through the kid’s belt loops and tossing it aside with a clink before setting to work on the fastenings. “He _really_ likes to watch.”

“Oh,” he kid replies faintly, and then _he’s_ watching, a little awed, as Sam drops down to his knees, tugging the kid’s jeans down with him, and Dean can appreciate the look because it’s exactly how he feels every time he sees Sam looking up at him from the floor. Sam leans in, mouths at the straining line of the kid’s cock through his boxer briefs, spit turning the light gray fabric dark as he works him over, and Dean has to grip his cock because he’s dying for contact, grabs it firmly through his jeans but doesn’t move his hand because this is nine kinds of fantasy come to life and he’s gonna lose it long before the main event if he’s not careful.

The kid is just shuddering helplessly under Sam’s ministrations, hands gripping onto Sam’s broad shoulders like they’re the only thing holding him up (Dean knows that feeling pretty well, too), harsh little sounds falling out of his mouth that resolve themselves into little gasps of “oh, oh, oh” until Sam pulls back and he’s whimpering, shifting his feet and rubbing his thighs together like he can get back the heat and friction if he just tries hard enough. Sam nips at the inside of his thigh before he sets his hands at the kid’s waistband, looks up seriously and asks, “Okay?” and if Dean knows Sam at nineteen, the kid would probably be embarrassed when he remembered how frantically he nods his assent, if he were able to remember this happening at all.

Sam pulls the elastic out and over the kid’s cock, which juts out proudly, an aching purple-red, and tugs the shorts down the kid’s slim hips. The younger Sam puts a hand on his dick, looks for all the world like he’s contemplating pushing it right up to the seam of his older self’s lips and pressing for entrance, but then Sam tells him, “On the bed,” voice low and rough, and the kid stumbles in his haste to comply, sits himself on the edge of the mattress, long legs hanging over and feet still on the carpet, thighs sliding open wide as Sam steps up to him, working down the line of buttons on his own shirt while he watches the kid watch him.

“Wait,” the kid says, hand over both of Sam’s to stop his movements. “Let me?” he asks, a little shy, but Sam just nods and lets his hands fall. The kid drags his hands up Sam’s chest, down the lengths of his arms, starts to pick delicately at the buttons on the cuffs of Sam’s sleeves, first the right, then the left. He guides his hands back up, continues where Sam left off, working his way down to the bottom of the shirt, but his touches are almost reverent. “Do we still love this?” the younger Sam whispers, and Dean’s not sure if he’s supposed to hear. “Being undressed?”

Sam nods, smiles softly, tucks messy hair behind the kid’s ear. “Yeah,” he murmurs back, “we do.” And then he’s leaning in again, catching up the kid’s mouth with his, but this time there’s more heat, because Sam does that sometimes when Dean says just the right thing, loses the control he keeps so tightly, gives himself over to sensation, puts his hindbrain in the driver’s seat and just _takes_. He presses the kid back and up on the mattress, nipping at his lips, up to his ear as the younger Sam’s hands shove under his v-neck and push both shirts off and away. Dean’s Sam pulls back for a minute, hands on the kid’s hips, thumbs digging into the hollows of his pelvis mercilessly so that the kid’s whining a little at the pain even while he’s scrabbling at the button on Sam’s jeans, tugging down the zipper, shoving them down over Sam’s ass along with his boxers because this kid hasn’t learned the patience the older one’s got locked down, is just as desperate as Dean remembers him at twenty-two. Sam pulls himself away, feet on the floor long enough to lose the rest of his clothes, and then he’s back on the bed, sprawled out over the younger version of himself, tan limbs all tangled together so that Dean can hardly tell the difference between them anymore. Sam’s so much broader now, that even when their bodies line up and the younger Sam groans as their cocks brush together, he’s all but buried under his older self, grasping to pull Sam in closer, fingernails digging into the skin of Sam’s back while Sam sucks hard just above the kid’s collarbone. Dean sees Sam get a grip around the kid’s cock, and the kid’s body is suddenly a wave of motion as he rolls his hips in time with the jerk of Sam’s fist.

“Please,” the kid is begging, “Sam, _please_ ,” and Sam tugs away from the hot red stain left behind by his mouth and grins, stares right down into the kid’s flushed face and says, “What do you want me to do?” The kid ruts up into him. “Fuck me, want you in me, want _me_ in me, fuck fuck _fuck_ ,” and then he’s coming, and Dean’s up out of the chair before he realizes he’s moving, leaning on the mattress so he can get a look up-close, because the whole picture of them is something unreal, but he also wants the details, the way Sam’s got the kid’s come on the trail of hair on his stomach, the way Sam squeezes gently at the kid’s cock with calloused fingers as the kid shudders beneath him. He tracks his eyes up, notes the roll of sweat down Sam’s skin, _onto_ Sam’s skin, takes in the little mouth-bruises littering the kid’s chest and neck, the perfect pink part of his lips, the pant of his breath as he comes down from his orgasm, head flung back on the mattress, eyes closed, and Dean’s so, so glad he didn’t let himself lose his pants yet because the look of them together, the _smell_ of them together is overwhelming this close and he’s aching to get off, fingering at the wet spot on the front of his jeans and shivering at the contact.

He looks up, catches the heated gaze of his brother, and his breathing stops altogether for just a minute under the intensity of it, lets all that heat build up between them, storing it for later until finally he has to tear his eyes away or risk losing his self-control completely and just letting Sam have him, fuck their plans.

When he looks back down at the younger Sam, the kid’s eyes are open and soft, staring right at him. “Dean,” the kid says, and then reaches up like he wants to touch, but Sam’s hand intercepts him, and Dean can’t help but sigh a little at the loss, even though he’s the one who made the rules in the first place.

“Be patient,” Sam admonishes, tangling his broader fingers up with the kid’s, although their hands are still so similar it’s hard to tell them apart. “Still gotta fuck you.”

It’s enough to get the kid’s attention off of Dean, eyes snapping over to Sam’s with a whispered “Yeah?” and Dean takes the chance to retreat before he gets too involved, sets himself back into the armchair even though his hands are itching to touch, because he knows how much better it is in the long run if he simply watches and waits.

“Yeah,” Sam answers, leaning forward, stretching one arm out and up to reach for the lube they’d stashed up among the pillows when they’d checked the house out earlier today before heading to the bar. The kid watches, the span of Sam’s chest and shoulders hovering right at eye level, and then Sam out-and-out moans, and Dean can’t help the sharp “ _fuck_ ” that escapes when the kid shifts himself up onto his elbows, presses his nose and mouth right up to the skin just under Sam’s armpit, where the sweat and smell of him, of _both of them_ , is the strongest, licks over the dampness and falls back onto the bed with a groan.

“God yeah,” the kid says, body rolling up so he can drag Sam down with him, “fucking need it so bad,” and that’s it, there’s pain and then there’s _agony_ , and Dean pops the button on his jeans, thumbs down the zipper, almost moans with the release of pressure on his dick. He presses the head right into his cupped palm, straining his legs and hips up a little to make it challenging, make it enough work that he doesn’t go off at the first touch. Dean’s Sam is so goddamn shy about talking in bed; Dean’s gotta work him up and practically over the edge before he’s desperate enough to start saying all the dirty shit Dean knows is going on in his mind, and Dean fucking _loves_ it, loves that the kid is so much more uninhibited, no brain filter. And then the kid sighs, the same hurt-pleased little sound his Sam makes when Dean starts opening him up, and Dean looks down, sees one of Sam’s fingers all slip-shiny with lube sliding up into the kid’s body, the younger Sam’s legs falling wider open, hips up and off the mattress in invitation.

Sam likes to take this part slow (because he’s a fucking bitch), and even though Dean can _see_ how wet Sam’s cock is from here, he takes his time with the kid too, eases him open, strokes at the heat of his insides like it’s a goddamn deep tissue massage, and Dean can barely even hear the incoherent noises that find their way out of the kid’s mouth every time Sam brushes slow and easy over his prostate, because his blood is boiling under his skin, his fingers twitching hard with the need to get in there himself, feel the slickness of the kid’s heat. By the time Sam gets a second finger in there and starts a gentle scissoring motion, Dean’s digging his fingers into his thighs so hard there’ll probably be bruises tomorrow, cock jumping where it’s hanging out of his jeans, his own hole twitching in sympathy with the kid’s because he knows the anguished pleasure Sam can wring out with just two fingers.

Finally, finally, _finally_ , Sam pulls his fingers out, gets the kid flipped over and arranged on his knees and elbows, gets his dick lined up where the kid is open and aching for him, and Dean tucks his knees up under himself in the chair, leaning all the way forward in anticipation, staring as the head of Sam’s cock presses forward, pops in so suddenly Dean swears he can _hear_ it, but that’s just the punched out sound the kid’s making as Sam gets his weight into it, let’s gravity sink him deeper, rocking his hips against the resistance.

Dean can’t stop himself anymore, finally wraps a fist around his own aching cock, loose but so much more than he’s let himself have so far, so it feels incredible. The sound the kid makes when he grabs his dick catches his attention, and he looks up and realizes that the kid is staring at him, eyes hot and intent, little line of pained worry between his eyebrows smoothing out as Dean’s Sam plows on into him, sets up an easy rhythm, and Dean can’t look away, so caught up in the _need_ there that he’s breathless, hand still on his own cock until Sam finally shifts his hips just right and the kid’s head falls forward with a gasp as Sam nails his prostate. Sam grins wildly, and Dean loves seeing it, loves getting to see Sam like this, so powerful, and then Sam’s fucking in hard, deep, dragging back out only to slam back in again, and Dean jacks himself to the pace of the kid’s breathless begging for “more, more, please, fuck, Sam.”

Sam pulls out without warning, and the kid growls a little in protest, but Sam just bites firmly at his shoulder and moves up over him, off to the side, and onto his back so he’s sitting up against the mountain of pillows at the top of the bed. He doesn’t even have to say anything before the kid is crawling into his lap, thighs wide over Sam’s hips, but Sam catches him before he can line up Sam’s cock and sink down, hands pushing until the younger Sam gets the message, turns himself around so his back is to Sam’s chest. Sam steadies himself with one hand, guides the kid back with the other until he’s squirming his way onto Sam’s cock, rocking back and forth in little jerks to get Sam back in at this new angle, and then groaning long and low when he’s fully seated. “Fuck,” the kid drawls, shifting up on his thighs, back down again, setting a new pace with the help of Sam’s steadying fingers curled around the jut of his hipbones. “Fuck…oh fuck me,” he stutters out, wraps a clumsy hand around his own cock, hard again and leaking. “You’re…so deep…can feel you…feel you… everywhere,” and Dean’s Sam just groans, sitting up further, wrapping his arms around the kid’s torso, holding him up against Sam’s chest so Sam can get enough leverage to slam his hips up, meeting the kid with every thrust.

“Look at him,” Sam commands, gets his hand on the kid’s jaw and forces his head to turn so that his eyes are on Dean’s, holds him there so both of them are watching, even as the kid’s eyes fall half-shut in pleasure. “Look at him, and don’t come,” and the kid almost sounds like he’s crying when he drops his hand away from his dick but he obeys, and Dean pants out “Jesus,” hand stripping his cock quick now, too much speed and only just enough precome to hold it off from being painful, but Dean’s beyond caring at this point, pressing all the way up on his knees so that he’s about to overbalance out of the chair, heat racing up, down, backwards through his veins and then Sam slams up into the kid _hard_ , groans out, “ _Sammy_ ,” into the kid’s skin in a broken little voice, and Dean’s _done_ , spurting hot over his fist, the wash of pleasure too great to even be pissed that he’s missing Sam’s orgasm.

Sam’s running gentle hands over the kid’s ribs, thumbing at his nipples so the kid’s writhing in a way that’s gotta be painful on Sam’s spent dick. “So gorgeous, so good for me,” Sam’s muttering, and the kid’s fucking _glowing_ with the praise even as he looks a little desperate with his dick bobbing in front of him. Sam lifts the kid off his lap, up onto his knees, hand coming up between his legs to rub over the kid’s sac as the kid shivers prettily.

“Now? Please?” the younger Sam asks, petulant, looking over his shoulder at his older self, and Dean’s Sam smiles benevolently.

“Dean, get naked,” Sam orders, eyes still on the kid sitting over him, who’s smiling like it’s fucking Christmas morning and clamoring out of Sam’s lap, spreading himself out on his back, knees up, thighs wide, feet flat on the bed.

“Uh-uh, kiddo,” Sam admonishes, and the kid sits up, puppy dog eyes on in full force in his confusion. “Second thing you’ll learn about your brother,” Sam continues, taking the kid’s hand and pressing the bottle of lube into his palm as Dean gets to his feet, drops his jeans to the floor.

“Second thing you’ll learn, is that he likes to get _fucked_.”

***

Sam’s standing next to the bed, shirt half on as he brushes the hair away from the sleeping kid’s forehead. Dean watches him for a long moment, the tenderness in the gesture almost overwhelming him. God, he loves his brother—loves both of them. Finally he turns away, steps out into the hall.

Castiel is waiting for him at the top of the stairs, not saying anything even though Dean knows from his watch that it’s five minutes later than they were supposed to be ready to go.

“There are things about the two of you that I will never understand,” Cas says, staring at the dark street through the picture window.

Dean claps a hand on his shoulder. “I appreciate that you don’t even try,” he replies, and is gratified when Cas looks at him with that little quirk of the lips that means he’s smiling. “But, you know, thanks. Really.”

Castiel nods in acknowledgement. “So you want him back in his dorm room?”

“Yeah and, you know, maybe clean him up a little. Sam might’ve gotten a little carried away.”

Cas turns to go down the hall, but Dean reaches out, grabs his forearm to stop him, even though he’s not sure why. They look at each other for a long moment before Cas says, “Yes, Dean?”

“Just—” Dean says, cuts off, huffs at himself with impatience. “I know we can’t let him remember this, any of this, but just…just leave him enough, okay?”

“Enough for what?” Cas asks him, eyes careful, assessing.

Dean’s hand comes up to rub absently at the back of his neck. “Enough so that he knows someone cares about him.” He drops his eyes away from the intensity of Castiel’s stare before he continues. “Enough so that he has the courage to…to kiss me, when he comes back.”

There’s a pause of silence before Cas replies. “I’ll do what I can,” he says, and then he’s off down the hallway. Dean turns back toward the window, rests his hands on the bannister as he stares out at the street. After a minute, he hears Sam’s footsteps, boots muted by the carpet, and then his brother’s arms are around his waist, Sam’s chin resting on his shoulder.

He feels the rumble of Sam’s voice deep in his chest when Sam speaks. “So, was it everything you imagined?”

Dean laughs. “Oh, _hell_ yeah,” he replies emphatically, leaning back into the heat of Sam’s body. “That’s going on my mental highlights reel pretty much _forever_.” They share the quiet for a minute. “But,” Dean finally continues, “I think I’m ready to go home.”

“Yeah?” Sam asks, nosing at the hair behind Dean’s ear, pressing little kisses to the back of his neck that make Dean think about things his body is way too exhausted to perform.

“Yeah,” Dean says softly, and he lets Sam take his hand and guide him back down the hallway.

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the wonderful, charming, lovely Tumblr user [dewchan7865](http://dewchan7865.tumblr.com/), who asked for samcest with voyeur!Dean. I hope you liked it!


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